


Everything Comes Around, Bringing Us Back Again

by junkster



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Recording Studios, Storms, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2012 Duran Duran Christmas Fic-Fest, for the prompt:</p><p>
  <i>Something about height differences. John and/or Simon having a 'fuck, he's small...' moment about Nick and/or Rog. Whether this is affectionate, lustful, loving or whatever doesn't matter!</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Comes Around, Bringing Us Back Again

**Author's Note:**

> **This somehow turned into a five-times-fic, with various pairings and scenarios - I just hope it doesn't lose sight of the prompt too much! Apologies if time lines are slightly screwy, and I also apologise for not including Andy in the last two parts - but since he wasn't in the prompt, he would've been an added complication!**
> 
> **Title pinched from Goldfrapp's 'Monster Love'.**

_1).The Squat, Birmingham, 1979._

“John, you can’t,” Nick said, gripping his wrist gently. “You’re too big.”

John’s heart was thumping a mile a minute just looking at that window, at the darkness inside, and he shook his head desperately as he turned to look at Roger. “I really, really don’t think you should do this. It’s my bass, anyway!”

Roger handed him his cigarette as he wound John’s scarf around his right fist, exhaling smoke up into the cold night air. “It’s either this or we break the door down,” he said, looking remarkably calm for someone about to put his hand through a glass window.

“We could...well, we could...” John trailed off helplessly, throwing his hands up and taking a deep, frustrated drag on Roger’s fag.

“We can’t call the police, John,” Nick reasoned with him, knowing what he was about to say. “It’s not our house.”

“We don’t know who’s in there, though. It could be some axe-murdering freak!”

“Our stuff’s in there,” Nick said, and though he looked as unhappy about the situation as John, there was also that determined, stubborn streak in his eyes that John was so used to seeing. “Without your bass we can’t play tonight, and I am _not_ letting someone steal our records.”

Roger reached out to take the stump of his cigarette back, plucking it from between John’s lips and taking in a lungful, raising his eyebrows at them. “So we’re doing this, then?” he checked, flicking the butt to the ground and having a good, long look around them. “Keep an eye out,” he advised quietly, moving up close to the tiny bathroom window. Pressing his free hand flat against the brick wall, he pulled his right arm back and let fly, his wrapped up fist hitting the glass with a satisfyingly quiet thud, cracks spreading out from the point of impact. With less force, he began pushing the broken pieces out of the frame, where they fell to the ratty old carpet on the other side without a sound.

John knew there was no way he could fit through that window - not because he was any less skinny than them, just because his height meant his frame was bigger than theirs - and the idea of letting them go in without him into that darkness was genuinely terrifying. As soon as they’d walked down the street and he’d seen the splintered front door, apparently barricaded shut from the inside, he’d felt nothing but fear.

“Careful with that,” Roger told him, breaking into his thoughts by handing him his scarf back. “Might be some bits of glass in there.”

John stared at him, helpless, unsure of whether to shake him or hug him. They hadn’t even known him that long yet, and here he was, illegally breaking into their illegal squat for them, about to go in and possibly face someone down, all because he was apparently just that good a friend, selfless and brave.

And Nick, god, Nick was only seventeen and John really, really didn’t want him to go in there. He felt so responsible for him, and he was so bloody tiny. They both were.

“You don’t have to come in, honestly,” Roger said to Nick for the second time, pausing with his hands curled around the windowsill, eyeing him with concern and wedging his cheap plastic lighter between his teeth.

John couldn’t help but think desperately ‘Yes, listen to him, don’t go in there!’, and then berated himself for thinking that Roger should go in alone. None of them should be going in there alone, that much he knew.

Nick’s face was set with determination, anyway, as John knew it would be. “I’m coming with you.”

As soon as Roger disappeared inside, John reached out to grab Nick’s arm and squeezed gently, meeting curious, shadowy green eyes. “Be careful,” he whispered. He didn’t think he’d ever meant those words as much.

Nick smiled at him bravely, putting a hand over his and squeezing it in return, then he turned back to the window and slipped into the darkness without a sound.

John heard a scrape of metal and then Roger’s lighter sparked into life, followed by Nick’s, the flames illuminating their faces in an eery glow. John could just make out the grimy old sink - avocado green - before the two of them disappeared out into the hallway and vanished from his sight.

His stomach turned over.

His heart throbbed quickly in his ears, which buzzed at the pressure, and he shifted his weight anxiously from foot to foot, listening for any sound he could. His terrified imagination made him expect shouts and smashing glass and running footsteps, and for a moment he stood frozen as he realised the person inside might come running for this window to escape. He took a step back, and another, his back hitting the wall of the house next door, bricks scraping his hands.

Still he heard nothing.

Minutes later - long, endless minutes - the upstairs bedroom window creaked open and Nick poked his head out, his eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Coast’s clear,” he hissed down, gesturing at John. “Come round to the front.”

He disappeared again and John stood still for a long moment, his heart on overload. As though on autopilot, he turned and walked down the path, then around to the front door. It sounded like someone was struggling with it on the other side, the wood making some ominous creaks and groans in the frame before a loud, splintering bang signalled success, the door springing open hard enough to smack into the wall inside. In the hall, Roger shook his hand out with a wince and inclined his head inwards.

“All clear,” he announced, stepping back to let John in and closing the door - as best he could. It was wonky on its hinges, the handle broken, the wood at the bottom in shards. “It wasn’t barricaded,” he explained, “just wrecked. Whoever was in here must’ve broken it down to get in, then when they closed it on the way out it just got stuck.”

“And there’s no one here? No sign?” John asked, glancing towards the stairs. His pulse was so heavy and thick in his ears he could barely listen to what Roger was saying, relief making his knees weak.

“Looks like someone just wanted a place to shoot up,” Roger said grimly, nodding towards a discarded syringe and lighter lying incongruously on the hallway carpet. “Nick’s just checking whether they stole anything of yours.”

John stared at the needle, listening to the sounds of Nick fumbling around in the living room. This house, which had been their bolthole, their own little secret, now seemed like a dark, shadowy, dangerous place. It always had been, in reality. Of course they weren’t the only opportunists around there. They should’ve seen it coming.

“You shouldn’t stay here anymore,” Roger told him as though privy to his thoughts, looking up at him as he leaned against the bare plastered wall. “Not without a lock, and now you’ve got that broken window too.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck as he added apologetically: “I’d offer you a place at ours but we haven’t really got the room.”

“It’s okay,” John said, smiling weakly at him and shuffling forwards the few steps it took to be able to reach out and hug him impulsively, feeling him tense in surprise and thumping him on the back. “We can go to one of ours. Thanks, Rog. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Nick spoke up with a small smile as he reappeared from the living room, placing an armful of records on the floor and grabbing Roger as soon as John let him go. “I wouldn’t have wanted to have to come in here on my own.”

Looking faintly bewildered at being the centre of their attention, Roger shot him a shrug and a smile. “Being short’s not always such a bad thing, right?”

John refrained from mentioning that earlier he’d been wishing to god they’d both been six foot six instead. Waiting for Nick to retrieve his LP’s, he picked up his bass and slung his free arm around Roger’s shoulders, leading the way, quickly, gratefully, out of the house.

 

_2). The Hotel - 1981_

John woke in the middle of the night, disorientated by the unfamiliar mattress under him and the strange, flickering light coming in through the window at the other side of the room. He stared, confused, until he remembered that the light was the motel’s dodgy neon sign outside, and the mattress was his hard, faintly-damp feeling bed. He sighed, threw an arm over his eyes, then stilled as he wondered exactly what had woken him up. It was raining outside again, thunder rumbling ominously underneath the heavy patter, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. No, the only unusual thing - and it wasn’t entirely unusual, he was coming to learn - was the sound of bare feet on carpeted, slightly creaky floorboards. Peeling his arm away again, he lifted his head and watched as Roger paced slowly across the room at the end of their beds, reaching the door and turning, running a hand through his hair and re-tracing his steps. The blank, distant look on his face was attention-grabbing enough, but it wasn’t what John got immediately stuck on.

It was the t-shirt. The black one with the random, space-related images printed all over it. The t-shirt which belonged to Simon.

Roger had pulled it on, just a pair of black boxers underneath, and every time he walked to certain points of the room John got an eyeful of his legs - lean muscle and a tan fading from their last exotic video shoot. But it was the shirt that really got him, that really made his stomach feel weird and twisty inside. It was the way the shoulders were too big for him, the wide, stretched, slashed neck showing off his sharp collar bones and yet more skin, the fact that he must’ve picked it up off the floor when he’d shared rooms with Simon the night before - but had he realised it wasn’t his? He must have.

The next turn he made it slipped off his left shoulder, the elegant curve of muscle and bone there looking slight and delicate. John’s mouth went dry.

Fuck, why was this so attractive to him suddenly? He’d seen Roger wear Simon’s clothes before, too-long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and never felt anything more than a pang of amusement. He’d even seen Simon wear Roger’s clothes, soft, well-loved t-shirts clinging to him like a second skin, riding up to show the strip of skin above his waistband whenever he stretched.

“Rog,” he called out softly, watching as Roger stopped dead in his tracks, dark head whipping around to look at him. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment before John threw back his covers and swung his feet onto the floor, standing up in one graceful movement, wearing only a pair of boxers himself. Both of them tended to sleep that way in winter; then naked as soon as it was warm enough.

Roger eyed him with an almost wary intensity.

“Sorry,” he uttered quietly, running a hand through his messy hair again. “Did I wake you up?”

John didn’t answer, moving towards him, stalking him almost, something predatory deep inside him sharpening every sense, thrumming in his veins. Consciously or not, Roger started backing away from him, until John was right there looming over him and his back hit the wall next to the window.

The lightning cracked the sky outside, the loud clap of thunder signalling just how close overhead the storm was.

Every flash of white illuminated Roger, his palms flat against the wall behind him. John stared, no one to tell him off for gawking, just taking his fill of that lightning-lit body. The very faint glow from the motel sign cast them in a pinkish hue and projected the raindrops that ran down the window onto Roger’s skin, and John found himself mesmerised by the effect. It was like he was a part of the storm, dark eyes flashing with it, skin flowing with it.

Reaching out, he traced a finger slowly along the neckline of that t-shirt, feeling the hardness of Roger’s collar bones and ribs under his warm, soft skin. Roger stood stock still under his touch, confusion narrowing his eyes.

“What...” he started to ask, then trailed off, silenced by John’s intense gaze.

“You’re wearing Charlie’s top,” John said, voice as soft as the slow slide of his fingers. Nervous excitement was shooting sparks through his stomach as he pressed his hands flat to the wall on either side of Roger’s head and drew himself up to his full height, casting Roger’s face into shadows.

Roger opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out, his lips parted, unsure of how to respond.

John slid his hand onto that shadowy face, cupping his left cheek and marvelling at the size of his own palm, the broadness of his thumb where it laid under Roger’s eye. He felt as though he was in a dream, as though he was still asleep over in his bed and all of this was just a dark, strange unreality.

“Fuck, you’re small,” he mused in fascinated wonder, watching the faint flash of indignation in Roger’s eyes. “Fuck, I want you...”

Roger still didn’t answer, just staring at him warily, the raindrops still crawling over his skin.

“I can help you sleep, if you come to bed with me,” John promised, moving even closer, catching the faint scent of Simon’s favourite aftershave and almost groaning in frustration. He pressed his face into Roger’s hair, breathing in the shampoo he’d used after the show that evening, breathing him in deep.

“Come to bed with me,” he offered again, low and warm, his voice a dark temptation, his hands sliding up under the t-shirt to feel Roger’s hot skin and hard muscle, so unfeminine, so not what he’d always thought appealed to him, but he was so turned on the blood was leaving his brain at an alarming rate.

He knew that if he laid Roger down on the bed, he could cover him entirely with his own body, press him down against the mattress, take over his entire world until all he could feel and see and smell and taste was John. God, he wanted that. He wanted to see the worry and homesickness leave his dark eyes and be replaced by blissed out pleasure. He wanted to cover that slender body with his own and protect it from the world outside the best way he knew how. He wanted to taste him, and take him, and claim him.

He pressed one of his palms against the bottom of Roger’s sternum under the t-shirt and started sliding it unbearably slowly down the hard, flat plain of his belly towards the waistband of his boxers, where the jut of his hipbones beckoned. He had to stop himself as he got closer, feeling the nerves in Roger’s side twitch, leaning in to press their foreheads together and closing his eyes.

“I want to touch you so much,” he admitted, his hand drifting across to palm one of Roger’s hipbones, to feel the sharp protrusion of it, to trace his fingers over it and onto the soft skin below. “I want to to touch every inch of you.”

Whatever internal battle Roger was dealing with inside, he apparently decided to listen to the devil on his shoulder. John’s eyes flashed open in relief as warm lips pressed against his own suddenly, both of Roger’s hands coming up to curl around his neck. He groaned into the searing heat of his mouth and trapped him fully up against the wall, pressing sinuously up against his body, stroking his hip in encouragement, feeling the hardness jutting against his own.

Roger pushed forwards into John’s touch and reached down to cover his hand, guiding it lower and answering softly: “You can...”, his voice raw and so damned alluring.

“Are you sure?” John forced himself to ask, even as Roger pushed his fingers lower past the elastic waistband of his boxers. “Please be sure...”

Roger looked down as he nodded, bringing his hand back up to grab the hem of his top and stripping it up and over his head in one graceful move, throwing it over the closest chair. John looked at him hungrily, taking in every line of muscle and leaning in to kiss him again. Heat shot straight down through his belly when he felt the body in his arms stretching upwards towards him, and he realised Roger was standing on tiptoes to meet his mouth. Fuck.

Wrapping both arms around his middle, John started walking them over towards Roger’s bed, and, as he laid him down and knelt to hover over him, he leaned down to kiss his lips softly and murmured against him, low and full of heat:

“Promise me you’ll wear that top tomorrow.”

 

_3). Nick and the Studio Garden - 1980 - 2000_

He’d stood there in the studio years ago one December evening, looking out of the french windows, watching Roger. He was out there in the snow, standing under the old, bare apple tree and smoking a cigarette, the smoke and the mist of his breath in the cold mingling into one. He had the other hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, the collar turned up around the back of his neck, and he’d looked so calm and peaceful out there - his footsteps the only prints in the snow - that Nick had smiled, a shot of affectionate warmth darting through his chest. And then Roger had turned slightly and spotted him, and, with the cigarette at the corner of his lips, smiled back at him.

To see him so at peace out there had been like catching a glimpse of something rare and beautiful. So often he’d seemed to be finding it harder and harder to be himself in interviews, on tv, in front of groupies.  At the time Nick hadn’t considered the idea that the panes of glass separating him from the rest of them in the studio could have had anything to do with that peace he witnessed.

 

Five years later, the apple tree was still there and still bare in the depths of a dark February. There was even a sprinkling of snow on the grass, though nothing like that winter so many years ago. Someone had put a bench out there since, a small, rickety-looking wooden affair, and for a moment Nick had thought that if he closed his eyes, when he looked again Roger might be sitting there, breathing smoke up into the sky.

He’d pressed a hand up against the cold glass window pane, the lump in his throat making it hard to swallow, like his body was closing in on itself from the inside, trying to protect itself.

When he’d pulled his hand away, numb, he’d watched the shape of his fingers melt away, letting his eyes refocus away from the garden and back on the inside instead, where he should have been, where things were real.

He’d swallowed hard, angry at himself for being so sentimental as to get emotional about a sheer memory. A ghost from the past.

But it made him feel old. It made him miss his friend.

 

Five years later again, it was Autumn and the leaves were being blown off the tree by a strong, cold wind, piles of them heaping up against the hedge. Nick had stared at them, the anger that had exploded out of him ten minutes earlier now just a numb, hollow feeling inside.

“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?” John had asked astutely, a mixture of admonishment and sympathy in his voice.

“Sorry,” Nick had mumbled into the heels of his hands. “I didn’t mean to take it out on Sterling.”

“You used to get pissed off at Rog too, y’know,” John recalled with a wry smile. “You used to get annoyed when you had to do all the talking in interviews, and when he used to get stage fright before tv spots sometimes. Oh, and when you used to tell him he should stick up for himself more, and when he wouldn’t wear some insane outfit you thought he should wear for a photo shoot, and -”

“Yeah,” Nick interrupted, drawing out the word with a wince. “Thanks, John. I remember.”

“I just mean...well, I just mean don’t think things were all hunky dory back then, just because you can look back with rose-tinted specs now. Because they weren’t.”

“I just miss how different he was to the rest of us. You could always find a quiet corner with him and just talk about things. The rest of us have always been too egomaniacal to be much good at just listening.” He went quiet for a moment, pressing his hand to the glass again. “For a while it was us three against the world, d’you remember? Me and my two Taylors.”

“I remember,” John had said quietly, clasping his hands between his knees before getting to his feet. “And I miss him too. I miss both of them. But they’re not coming back, Nick.”

“No,” Nick had answered, hollow and tired. “They’re not.”

John had stood behind him, hugging him close as they gazed out at the garden, his arms crossed around Nick’s collar bones. Comforting though it was, the height of him had only served to make Nick feel even smaller. So small.

 

Nine years later.

Nick was sat on the floor in front of the window, knees pulled up and eyes fixed blankly on the rain outside. There was nothing in his expression, no spark of interest or life or anything. When he eventually dragged his gaze upwards, Simon was struck by the lack of anything warm in his eyes.

He crouched down, curling a hand around the back of his neck and squeezing lightly, blonde hair brushing his fingers. He didn’t speak, just waited, sitting down properly by Nick’s side and stroking his hand slowly up and down the curve of his back.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this,” Nick said eventually, softly, sounding like every word was an effort as he amended: “How much longer I can keep doing this.”

Simon frowned as a nervous grip tightened around his insides. He knew without question what Nick was talking about. “This is your life. It’s _our_ life.”

“What’s the point? No one cares about us anymore. Nothing sounds like how I want it to sound, lately.”

Simon slid his hand off Nick’s back and moved around to sit in front of him instead, blocking his view of the depressingly grey London rain outside, meeting his eyeliner-free eyes, just as striking in their natural state despite the hint of darkness underneath.

“When did you last sleep?” he asked gravely, reaching out to rest a hand over one of his knees. “You were here when I left last night and you were here before me this morning.”

“Albums don’t write themselves, Charlie.”

“You’re not supposed to be writing it all by yourself.”

“I don’t think I’ll be writing _any_ of it at this rate. I think I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost it,” Simon promised, finding Nick’s hands with his own and curling their fingers together tightly. “You’re just having a bad week.”

Nick glanced at him with a hint of a slightly wild smile as he echoed wryly: “ _Week?_ ”

“Week,” Simon stressed firmly, pressing his thumbs into Nick’s palms in admonishment. “And next week, when we’ve finished with the press, you’ll look back on this and laugh. Because you’re Nick Rhodes, the Controller. You don’t get lost, or lose faith, or falter - you always know exactly what you want to do.”

The press had been a proper pain in the arse, lately. No one wanted to interview them, no one wanted to photograph them, despite the fact that they were looking hot as hell for their age, though Simon said it himself.

Ever since it had been mostly just the two of them doing interviews and photo shoots together, people had been making remarks about them being an odd couple, difficult to photograph well because they were so different. Simon knew Nick thought that was a bunch of bollocks, but he took it with good grace every time he was told to stand on a step or Simon was told to hunker down, knowing they didn’t have much say in the matter anymore. He knew Nick missed the days of having Roger and Andy standing level with him, the three of them making a perfectly straight line and Simon and John being the odd ones out. Back then he hadn’t been made to feel small, but now it was all anyone ever seemed to tell him. It never crossed Simon’s mind until someone mentioned it, and then it was all he could see for a day or so, bewildered by the realisation. Nick was such a big character that to think of him in diminutive terms just didn’t seem right, somehow, but none of these press people actually knew him, so they didn’t get it - all they saw was his slight frame. Maybe it was just being seen with Simon all the time. Whatever it was, it was just another thing that was getting him down.

Frowning as he gazed at him in critical appraisal, Simon drummed his fingers against the wooden floor for a moment before getting up on his knees decisively and gesturing at Nick to do the same. Height differences be damned. “Come on, c’mere. On your knees.”

Nick smirked faintly despite himself. “You’ve always wanted to say that to me, haven’t you?”

Simon raised an eyebrow as he countered in amusement: “I don’t remember ever having to ask.”

Sighing as he hauled himself out of his cross-legged position and shuffled up onto his knees, Nick cocked his head to concede the point, saying wearily: “Touche.”

Simon smiled, reaching out to take either side of his face gently in his big hands, looking at him with utter, firm belief. “You are not - I repeat _not_ \- going to give up on me now. Everything’ll be okay, you’ll see. You believe me, don’t you?”

Nick held his eyes for a long, long moment before answering quietly: “Haven’t I always?”

“There you are, then. We’ll carry on like we always have, you and me. Us against the world.”

Something wry and sad flickered in Nick’s eyes at that, but he nodded, and when Simon wound both arms around him and pulled him into that strange, kneeling hug, he returned it with a tight, desperate grip.

 

_4). Reunion - 2001_

It’s May and there’s blossom on the apple tree, a mass of pinky-white flowers glowing in the low Spring sunshine. John pretends to tune his bass and instead watches surreptitiously as Nick stands by the french windows, in turn watching Roger, who’s standing out there with his head tilted upwards, looking up into the wide, stretching branches, his hands in his pockets.

And as he looks around him, he turns slightly, and he sees Nick.

And he smiles.

There’s no cigarette this time and no leather jacket, and he’s twenty years older, but as Nick smiles back at him they’re both stock still, gazing at each other, the memory flooding back.

And as Nick’s hand curls around the door handle, John smiles to himself and feels utter relief unwind in his chest.

“Charlie,” he calls, as the door clicks shut. “Come over here.”

Craning his neck around the doorway leading out to the corridor, where he’s just been taking a phone call, Simon watches as John moves to sit over by the window.

“What’s happening?” he asks, attention caught, sliding his phone into his pocket and strolling across the room.

Having John back in his life again, smiling and laughing with him on a daily basis, is more than he’d ever hoped to happen. Having all of them back is incredible. He’s spending pretty much every day feeling like an excited kid at the moment.

“What’re we looking at?” he repeats, sitting down on the floor by John’s side and seeing, immediately, what he’s beaming about. A smile starts creeping onto his own face. “Ah...”

Fuck, Nick looks happy. They both do. Sat side by side with their backs to the old tree, shoulders pressed together, they’re both smiling as Nick tells Roger something with animated gestures of his hands, pushing his shirt sleeves up out of the way. It’s like nothing ever changed.

Simon leans against John’s side and taps him on the knee, leaving his hand there.

“We’ve done a good thing, here, Johnny.”

 

_5). Publicity Photo Shoot - 2001_

Whoever had decided they should do the shoot outside on a cold Autumn night had clearly not taken into account the weather forecast and the fact that they’d be wearing their new tour shirts - no coats, no scarves - showing off the new designs for publicity’s sake. The director of photography had found the coldest, most exposed alleyway possible alongside their hotel, and not long after completing the group shots the heavens had opened and a barrage of sleet and hailstones had come down, sending everyone diving for cover. The photographer had decided this was a good thing in terms of atmosphere and proceeded to force John and Simon to share an umbrella and get back under the spotlight. Nick and Roger had huddled under another umbrella on the sidelines and watched them in sympathy, hands in their pockets, shoulders set stiffly.

As soon as they were finished, Simon darted back into the hotel to get coats for everyone, but by the time he got up to the eighth floor and back the photographer had already set up for Nick and Roger, standing them back to back and coaxing them to turn their heads and fix him with their best, intense stares. The hail had morphed into rain by that point, the ground slippery, a cold, icy chill gusting down the alley.

“Take the umbrella away,” the photographer said to his aide suddenly, having a ‘eureka’ moment and completely ignoring Nick’s splutter of disbelief by snapping at the girl again: “Take it away! This is perfect! Wet and wild!”

“This isn’t a bloody girl on girl porno!” Nick shot after his retreating back, watching in utter disbelief as every single other person took cover under an umbrella as he and Roger got soaked to the skin in seconds.

“Stay as you are!” came the excited direction. “Let’s see that intensity!”

It was a strange pose, the back-to-back thing - unnatural, although intriguing in a ‘light and dark’ sort of way, and the two of them certainly weren’t having any trouble looking angry. John was watching with a finger pressed to his lips, frowning at the bizarre directions being given. Simon handed him his coat and he took it with a grateful smile, both of them wrapping up and pressing against each other’s sides for warmth.

“This guy has no idea what he’s doing,” Simon uttered quietly, leaning in towards John so no one else would hear.

“I know,” John said. “Can you believe this? Why the hell are we doing this outside?”

“He said the hotel lobby was ‘too glitzy’ for ‘our style’, apparently. Apparently we’re more suited to grimy back alleys.”

“Christ. It better be fucking worth it, that’s all I can say.”

Roger - who was suffering even more than the rest of them by dint of having been forced to wear a sleeveless version of the shirt - folded his arms across his chest and was immediately told off for doing so, as he obscured the logo on the front. Dropping them back to his sides, he visibly sighed, the saturated cotton pulling tight across his chest. His hair had turned almost black thanks to the rain, making him even more of a contrast to Nick.

“Got to admit, they do look good,” Simon murmured, looking at them appreciatively.

“Yeah,” John agreed, equally engrossed. “Good thing Nick’s make-up’s waterproof.”

“He’s gonna flip if this goes on much longer.”

“First sign of flipping, we move in, yeah? This guy might be a dick but he’s an influential dick. We should try not to alienate him.”

They watched as the photographer took hold of Roger’s shoulders and physically moved him to a forward-facing position. Roger went with it but his body looked uncooperative, every movement jerky from the cold. Nick’s eyes flashed with irritation as the guy looked him over critically.

“Don’t touch him,” Simon sing-songed softly in warning under his breath, willing the guy to step away, which - apparently not as stupid as he looked - he duly did, taking a hesitant few steps back before rushing over to his camera.

Nick looked skywards. Roger bit his lip. Their breaths were misting in the air now.

As they waited through the discussions over the next shot, Roger asked politely: “Can we put a jacket on, or something?”

The photographer looked up from his set-up and wrung his hands together, shaking his head. “We really need to be able to see your shirts, and a jacket would obscure them, so...but I promise, just two more minutes and we’ll be done.”

Roger didn’t push it. That wasn’t his style, and since the reunion he’d seemed reluctant to be any trouble to anyone anyway, even though the rest of them had told him again and again that he had as much right as any of them to just be himself. It was obvious it was going to take a while before they were all able to relax for real.

“He’s bloody freezing,” Nick retorted for him, casting the photographer a glare. “We all are.”

“It’s fine,” Roger told him quietly, getting a sharp glance for his trouble.

“No,” Nick argued, “It’s not.”

Getting no response, he turned his head to glance at Roger, eyes softening slightly at his downcast look. He repeated quietly, firmly: "It's _not_."

“Two minutes!” the photographer called absently over the sound of yet more rain coming down on the cobbled stones.

“John, they’re turning blue,” Simon whispered in realisation. “We need to get this over with, fast.”

“I know,” John said. “We’ll let him have his two minutes and then we’ll end it, one way or another.”

  


“Okay, we’ve nailed it!” was the smug cry that set them free, finally, five minutes later.

Nick and Roger were, by that point, absolutely soaked to the bone, their clothes clinging, their bodies stiff from the cold. As the crew started packing up, John and Simon darted over and led them out of the fray, into the shadows further along the alley.

“Here,” Simon said, shrugging off his coat and slipping it around Roger’s shoulders, watching John do the same for Nick.

Roger shot him a look of intense gratitude as the residual warmth cocooned him, but he was so numb Simon had to physically help him thread his arms through the sleeves, looking at him in concern as he shivered relentlessly.

“Come on, Rog,” he encouraged softly, pulling the sides of the coat together and wrapping one over the other. There was no point in doing the buttons up, and looking at the way it swamped him made Simon’s heart do something strange and wobbly. “Here, cross your arms, keep it tight around you.”

Roger nodded stiffly and did as he was told, looking as though every thought process was taking twice as long as it should. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Simon pulled him close and looked across to see John struggling to keep Nick in his own over-sized coat, the feisty look of irritation on Nick’s face making Simon grin a little. He’d lucked out with Roger, who was placid and prepared to obedient when he knew what was good for him, but Nick...Nick never knew what was good for him, and didn’t care to be told, either.

Fortunately, John was equally stubborn.

 

“Please tell me it at least looked good,” Nick muttered as they crowded into the lift, ignoring the dubious looks being shot at them from behind the hotel’s reception desk as they dripped all over the carpet.

“You looked fabulous, darling, fabulous,” Simon assured him distractedly, busily trying to keep an arm around a fidgeting Roger’s neck and jab a finger against the button for their floor. “I’m half jealous that me and John didn’t get a chance to do the ‘wet and wild’ thing, actually.”

“As if you’ve never done it before,” Nick sighed, submitting to John’s mother-hen act as long arms wound around his neck from behind.

Simon leaned back against one side of the lift, John the other, their respective patient held in front of them in a mirror image.

Simon reached out to touch the knuckle of his index finger to Roger’s cheek, catching a droplet of water that was tracking slowly over his skin and tucking a wet, curling strand of hair back behind his ear. Roger shivered but barely seemed to register it, lifting a shaking hand to swipe across his forehead. His fingernails were most definitely blue.

With a sigh, Simon reached both arms around him and held him from behind.

“If they get ill off this, I am personally sending an extremely angry letter to that photography crew.”

“Our avenging angel,” Nick said, too resigned to put much effort into his acerbic words.

“Old wives’ tale, anyway,” Roger pointed out in a mumble, leaning his head back against Simon’s shoulder.

“He’d better hope so.”

 

The hotel, it had to be said, was pretty decadent - swimming pool and jacuzzis downstairs, huge ensuite bathrooms and enormous king sized beds in every room. Which was why Simon didn’t even think twice about guiding everyone into his and grabbing all of the fluffy white towels out of the bathroom and throwing one each over Roger and Nick’s heads. Nick cursed him quietly and then cursed some more when John tried to help him dry his hair, while Simon peeled his coat off Roger and hung it up on a hanger over the radiator. Without it he looked even smaller, somehow, despite the way it had swamped him. Simon watched as he leaned over to pull his boots off and set them down near the door, giving his hair a quick scrub with the towel and letting it fall around his shoulders.

“You know what they say, boys,” he remarked, a little less concerned now that they were inside and a little more fixated on the way their clothes were clinging to their bodies. “First thing to do if you’ve got hypothermia is get those wet clothes off and prepare yourself for some serious sharing of body-heat.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, managing to look supercilious and pissed off at the same time. “We wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. Besides, this is hardly hypothermia. This is us having been forced to stand in sleet, hail, wind and rain for hours on end to the point where we’re about to kill someone for a hot shower.”

“Oh, come on,” John said with a grin, relinquishing his grip on the towel and sliding a thumb down Nick’s back instead, wet cotton moulding to the curves of his spine. “We could strip you, wrap you in soft, warm towels...”

“Wrap you up in _us_ ,” Simon added, directing a suggestive smirk at Roger, who glanced at him with a faintly amused smile before looking firmly down at his feet, busying himself with drying off his hair.

“You can both fuck off,” Nick told them firmly, stepping away from John’s seductive touch and shivering visibly as all that wet material shifted against him. “You pick the worst times, honestly.”

“You stay here, if you want,” Roger offered, rubbing his hands over his arms. “I can go back to my room.”

“Wait, Rog,” Nick said, stopping him as he turned to go, reaching out to take one of his hands. “Charlie is right about the body-heat thing. Well, not right...but it sounds good right now, doesn’t it?”

Roger cocked his head in bemusement, like he wasn’t sure he was hearing what he was hearing.

“I think we deserve to warm each other up a little after that, don’t you?” Nick continued, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I’m sure Charlie won’t mind us using his shower.”

Simon opened his mouth to say something and nothing came out, disbelief warring with amusement as Nick dragged Roger in the direction of the bathroom. Too stunned to argue, Roger just went with it, shooting Simon and John a shrug and a hint of the mischievous smile they really hadn’t seen enough of lately.

As the door closed with a bang, Simon blinked at it, twice, then turned his head to meet John’s incredulous look. Mouth open, he jerked his thumb back towards the door and asked in bewilderment: “Did that just happen, or have I stepped back twenty years in time?”

John’s grin grew slowly as he listened to the sound of the water running. “Fuck, Charlie. _Fuck_. _This_ is what you call a reunion."


End file.
